(One of my favorite little scenes I've ever witnessed at Cafe Solstice.)
Curly-haired redhead lass comes in and sits at Solstice's second largest table on a Saturday, tan skirt made of wispy fabric, ugly thigh-length sweater with a fake gold belt buckled over it. Big, black, frumpy purse. Burberry scarf. Gray tights. Ankle-high brown leather boots. She walks up to the counter, buys two coffees, sits back down, and writes something in Sharpie marker on the cups. She draws a heart under each message she writes, sets the cups side by side, takes a picture with her phone, texts it to someone, then waits. And waits. AND waits!
Her nose is a little masculine, but it looks good on her. It is made femininely sexy by a rhinestone piercing. She has gold drop earrings, and bobby pins clip back her side-parted hair. She is getting antsy. Every time the door opens, she looks up, then back down at the cups in disappointment. She starts drawing koala bears on napkins. Then checks her phone. Then cranes her neck to look out the window. Then touches her hair to make sure it's still in place. Then goes back to drawing koala bears.
At long last, her man arrives. He looks exactly like her, but bearded. His sweater looks like Grandma knitted it, with brown deer silhouettes and red diamonds sandwiched between horizontal brown zig-zags. He sits, and the girl leans into him, trailing her fingers insecurely, possessively over his leg. He fails to notice the message and heart she drew on his cup. She tries to indirectly guide him to look, but fails, and so has to point it out to him overtly, killing the spontaneous cuteness of it all. The moment is painfully awkward. He tries to salvage it by toasting his paper cup to hers. The light weight of her cup against the full heaviness of his is a marker of just how long she had to sit waiting for him.
Would Malcolm Gladwell give them six months? A year?